The Natural Philosopher, Hackney

It would be easy to walk past The Natural Philosopher, mistaking its shop window for another East End bric-a-brac emporium peddling retro tat aimed at London Fields poseurs' postmodernist pads. Downstairs, beyond a reception area's rococo geegaws and avian taxidermy - Corrie Steve's Street Cars office as imagined by Tim Burton - lies Dalston members club Manero's new liquor lounge. First however, I'm urged to inspect an anteroom that houses what must be The East End's smallest "museum." Piled on shelves, ten-feet high, is owner/ curator James Manero's collection of computers, myriad Macs dating back to the earliest commercially available examples. Apple anoraks will be fascinated. Anyone under the age of 30 might wonder how we managed in our jobs pre-Jobs. (Search 'IBM Selectric' 'carbon paper' 'jammed keys' and 'abacus'). Me? I'm instantly stressed out by the prospect of the very same Performas and Power Macs that, for all their shiny, sophisticated Californian state-of-the-art promise, would end in hissy fits as two weeks worth of work - my relationship with the floppy notoriously sloppy - were lost as 'bombs' that were definitely not "da bomb" appeared and the dreaded Sad Mac Face (pictured) indicated my much admired hardware was now about as useful as a five year-old Big Mac®. Talk about expensive landfill! Downstairs, the laid-back Natural Philosopher's living room-sized cocktail lounge is served by a funky, deep, sunken bar to one end, its tenders' heads barely visible above the surround that separates it from their customers. Step away from the ledge, Squiffy McGee! Falling face down into a mixologists' mosh pit is a social fail. Such shame should be rare: the house has a table-service only policy. A launch night menu, limited to a quartet of cocktails (normally £9), throws up a couple of hits: summery gin sour, Lord Kelvin and Zabarella, a cardamom-infused Ocho tequila and pomegranate margarita. The house signature is the Parmenides. Well-executed and attractively presented perhaps, but the lure of brandy, yellow Chartreuse, absinthe bitters and white wine is all Greek to me. There again, when I was at school in the first century AD, my favourite tutor was another ancient Athenian philosopher, Agrippa The Skeptic.
489 Hackney Road E2

Hand Of Glory, Shacklewell

The Shacklewell Arms has long been the sort of lo-fi music pub where you'll spot faces that grace - or create - the pages of edgy style mags with titles like Wound, Bruise and GBH. Now, thanks to The Shrubbery - a garden-themed cocktail bar at popular cafe/ social hub The Russet - and Hand of Glory - the latest gig from Shoreditch stalwarts DreambagsJaguarshoes - this pocket off Kingsland High Street just got even more interesting for the style barometrs, bloggers, club monkeys and skanky posh bird junkies whose habitat is deepest Dalston. Latterly a dreary wine bar - and before that, the old Amhurst Arms - this rebooted boozer/ music venue's name describes the fate that befell the light-fingered back in the days before convicted thieves were given a conditional discharge, a team of social workers to help them resolve their issues, and group hug therapy on an adventure weekend in Dorset at the taxpayer's expense. JK Rowling fans will know the withered Hand of Glory, severed at the wrist, as Draco Malfoy’s pet talisman, while an older generation will recognise it as 'The Thing.' The bar's low-rent Gothic decor involves wiccan art, pagan trappings, a life-size fellow made out of straw, Morris dancing malarkey and, on the bar top, a petrified stone cat / gin dispenser (pictured) that cost £1,000, we're told. "More like a fiver at the Homebase garden centre sale," reckons my chum. I'm particularly drawn to a display case featuring esoteric avian taxidermy turned into the sort of millinery the late Isabella Blow would have teamed with a McQueen ballgown to go pick up a p-p-p-Penguin and a pint of milk at her local Spar. The overall vibe is cod-creepy: think The Wicker Man or the sort of in-breds' village pub John Steed and Emma Peel would be called on to investigate. Barrel-aged negroni and boulevardier, Thundering Molly cider and local Crate, Kernel and Five Points ales should help settle any nervousness. Rock up too for 'rural fare' from Austrian pop-up street foodies, Fleisch Mob - plus beer-sticks, pickled veg and sundry snacks in screw top jars that might stump any amputee tea-leaf looking for a fresh start behind the bar.

240 Amhurst Road E8 2BS 
@HandofGloryPub
  www.jaguarshoes.com  

House of Wolf, Islington

Previously, it housed Albert and Pearl, a swine among bars with ideas above its station (that's Highbury and Islington if you are tubing it); if you were part of (cringe!) 'Cool Britannia', you'll have fond memories of the place as The Medicine Bar; and if, like me, you used to ride a penny-farthing, you'll have enjoyed it as a Victorian music hall. Now this rickety ramble is in the clutches of the crew behind Brighton venue Madame Geisha who have transformed the Islington jumble into an ‘experimental pleasure palace’ that comes on like a Jack The Ripper era cocktail bar as imagined by Tim Burton. Tweedy young fogeys and vintage-clad chapesses who frequent postmodern gin joints such as The Worship Street Whistling Shop and Purl will adore it. Overwhelmed, minimalists may need smelling salts and a period of repose in the secret Victorian ‘fainting room’ while they recover from House of Wolf's ‘multi-sensory’ overload. I popped in for a tequila at a Patron pop-up, and I'm still reeling from an encounter with a fortune teller who tells me I'm about to father a set of triplets who will be born hideously deformed. Ah well, I can always pimp them out to a future House of Wolf freak show; for Gothic divertissements are very much in the spirit of the entertainment provided in the venue's ground floor main bar-cum-performance space.  Expect live sets from name-to-drop musicians, off-the-wall bingo, quizzes, cabaret and Saturday late The Burning Beat - billed as ‘wild-eyed-gypsy carnival rock n’roll'. This room's bar does a range of a dozen cocktails at around £8.50, but the intrepid will fancy an adventure in the Phileas Fogg-esque Apothecary upstairs. Here, lab-coat-clad professors (resting actors?) prepare arcana such as a black pudding-infused rum libation served in a Lyle’s treacle tin; a doctored knickerbocker glory unsuited to any child except The Omen's Damien; and the vodka peculiar that is popcorn-flavoured sour, Over The Pop. Over the top? Exciting innovation or pretentious tosh? Online reviews have been rapturous... and damning in equal measure - particularly in respect of the restaurant's outlandish 'experimental' food. But don't shoot the Wolf until you've checked out its den for yourself. Beast/ beauty? Either way, you won't be indifferent.

181 Upper Street N1 1RQ 7288 1470 http://houseofwolf.co.uk